Tuesday, June 5, 2012

On my nineteenth birthday, while on Christmas Vacation from Westtown School, I drove down to the Marine Corps Officers Selection Office in Washington D.C. When I returned home that evening I had enlisted in the Marine Platoon Leaders Course. Officially I was a PFC in the Marine Corps! I was just a kid, doing what was expected of kids in that day, signing up to serve our country. I had been living a sheltered life in a wonderful Friends boarding school in Pennsylvania. My attempts to be accepted at Annapolis had been thwarted by a lack of a local congressman to give me an appointment. My family, who were living overseas had no local US address so I had no Congressman.

Now, as a PLC I would attend OCS-like training at Quantico, Virginia during my Freshman and Junior summers at Dartmouth. These two training periods were both the most physically and mentally challenging experiences of my young life. They were also the most rewarding. After all our training, where our Platoon Sergeant had treated us as lowly maggots, unfit to wear the Marine Uniform, Staff Sergeant Parker came up to me, shook my hand, and said he would be proud to serve under me in the future. There could be no greater compliment; there could be no greater feeling of accomplishment.

During these Summers I met some strong leaders and friends. Friends who worked and suffered together. I also learned a great deal about myself. I learned the difference of being one of the guys and being a leader who trusts, values and learns from the troops he leads
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I will recall some of the highlights of these summers:

At Camp Upshur, an aging and recently reactivated camp of ancient Quonset huts, located in the boonies of the Quantico Base training areas I first learned about a place called Vietnam. Both our Platoon Sergeant and Sergeant Instructor had recently returned from Nam. Staff Sergeant Ally was a veteran of both Korea and Vietnam and walked showing the affect of shrapnel collected in Korea.

The Hill Trailis a place or event known and remembered with dread by all candidates who passed through Quantico. This trail hilly runs through the rugged woods over red clay near Mainside. During the Summer the heat of Virginia is staggering due to the temperatures approaching 100 degrees with the humidity close behind. The Marine Corps had a system to control what activities were allowed at certain heat levels. A Black Flag meant no physical activity was permitted. However, most days were under red-flag conditions that required Corpsmen to be nearby with children's swimming pools full of ice loaded on six-buys (trucks). Fortunately, I was a track and cross country runner who knew to gobble down tons of salt tablets and water. I actually enjoyed running the Hill Trail with pack, helmet and M-14. Sometimes the heat was so bad it looked like a sniper was in the woods as candidates fell and collapsed from the heat. The Navy Corpsmen quickly dragged the heat victims int mud puddles or the pools of ice to get the body temperature from rising to the dreaded 105 degrees that causes brain damage. The last thing you ever wanted to be was a straggler.

Night in the Squad-Baywas a quite a scene. There, in two rows of bunk-beds (racks), slept about 40 exhausted and stressed candidates. At 2000 we were given the order to mount our racks. We said a prayer to Chest Puller, asked God to bless the Marine Corps and then our Sergeant would give the order: "READY SLEEP". And that we did - kind of. If you were awake during the night or had the fire-watch duty you would hear many talking in their sleep. One candidate would, while sound asleep, get out of his top rack and march down to the Sergeant Instructor's office which was empty at this hour. He would then carry on a long conversation and then return to his rack, crawl in, and continue to sleep. Candidate Thompson was DOR'd -dropped out- because, for some reason, the Corps did not think it wise to have an officer sleep walking through the jungles of Nam. One night I woke up in the middle of the night to find myself fully dressed in my utility uniform and boots standing at attention at the bottom of my rack. It took me a minute to figure out where I was and what I was doing. I then heard Candidate Girard, sound asleep, in the rack next to mine yelling, in the best Platoon Sergeant's voice; "GET UP, GET UP, GET YOUR ASSES OUT OF THE RACK!" I had heard the order in my sleep and like a good Marine responded even though both Girard and I were sound asleep. We were always exhausted. As we marched to class or chow I would look ahead and see how far it was until we would have to turn or do some other maneuver. I would then close my eyes and "nap" as we marched.

The Rifle Range. Every Marine is a rifleman as explained by a by a Marine Fighter Pilot during the Korean War. He was being interviewed and was asked what his duties were. His response; " I am a Marine Rifleman but at the moment I am flying F-86s."

The Marines take marksmanship very seriously. A full week was dedicated to qualifying with our M-14 rifles. We were hauled from our barracks to the Rifle Range at 0 Dark Thirty in the morning. For the first two days we did not fire a round. We snapped in. That is, we sat in large circles around 50 gallon drums with targets painted all around them. We would practice sighting in on these little targets from the various shooting positions: prone, sitting, and off-hand. In each position there is an exact method of tightly wrapping the rifle sling around your arm so the weapon becomes a part of your body and will move back to where you were aiming after the rifle recoils from a shot. After couple of days of this painful contorting of the body we finally got to shoot.

While half of us were on the firing line the other half were in the butts working the targets. After each shot the target is hauled down and the shot marked with a sticker so the shooter will know where he hit and can make appropriate adjustments of windage and range. If the shooter misses the target completely the Marine waves Maggy's Drawers - a red flag on a stick. It is quite an experience to be working below the target berm when 50 Marines open up with 50 rounds of rapid fire whizzing over your head.
I started out really well on qualification week and was shooting in the Sharpshooter - almost Expert range. But I choked on Qual. Day and only shot Marksman.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

I just finished the book "THE BLOODY BATTLE OF SURIBACHI" by Richard Wheeler, a young Marine Corporal who served with EASY Company on Iwo Jima. Wheeler was in an early wave of Marines assaulting the island. Easy Company's Regiment had the mission to cut off Mt Suribachi from the rest of the Island and then assault the mountain and reach the crater on top. Suribachi was honeycombed with Japanese caves, bunkers and pillboxes defended by Japanese soldiers knowing they were fighting till their death. Days of naval bombardment and aerial bombing had done little to weaken the brave Japanese defenders. Reading of the courage of these men is awe inspiring and heart wrenching. In the face of overwhelming odds the Marines fought inch by inch up the black sand of the volcano. Wheeler was seriously wounded and evacuated early in the climb. Much of his book was related to him by his surviving friends in Easy Company who finally took Suribachi and raised the first flag atop the mountain. This Battalion took over 91% casualties. There was true purpose in this assault. It was no mere photo-op. The volcano had to be taken to eliminate Japanese observation and artillery spotting over the rest of the Island which would be fought over for the next 31 days. Iwo needed to be taken to allow US aircraft to have access to the home islands of Japan.

Marines raise the first flag on Mt Suribachi

This book got me to thinking and to realize this country has not fought a war since WWII that was worth the life of a single Sailor, Soldier, Airman or Marine. The people of the United States certainly have made no sacrifice to support our combat since WWII. This truly was the Greatest Generation on the battlefield and, importantly, on the home front.

A larger flag was soon raised. The photograph of the second became famous worldwide.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

My brother just gave me a book for my birthday! In two days I devoured "THE LIMIT, Life and Death on the 1961 Grand Prix Circuit" by Michael Cannell. This incredible read, of the relatively earl days of F-1 racing, awakened my early memories and love for the sport.

As a 5th and 6th Grader in Chevy Chase, Maryland I became friends with Gary Jani who was the Playground Director at the Lafayette playground which occupied the space of two city blocks - right across the street from our home. At that time I had a nice set of Soap Box Derby wheels upon which I built several cars. I remember hurtling down 33rd Street, past our house and down another two blocks to my friend Bob Hanson's house. It turned out that Gary was a member of the Sports Car Club of America and was active at the nearby Marlboro Raceway. He drove an old silver Porsche Speedster with a red leather interior. With his help we built a body for my wheels that resembled the current Le Mans style Porsche Racing car. Gary hand painted the Porsche emblem which was proudly attached the paper mache' nose of my racing machine!

Several times I accompanied Gary to the race track where I was able to "work" the flag stations with him. One day there was a great celebration and demonstration of the new Austin 850 - a precursor of the Mini Cooper of today. There were several races for people to witness the abilities of this neat little car. Sterling Moss, one of the all time great British racing drivers was one of the racers. I was up close and personal to this world renowned hero! I saw him flip a little Austin when it was filled with the extra ballast of 3 News reporters! My days at the track awakened my desire to drive fast! I will never forget the growl of the AC Bristols, the tiny red bubble-top Fiat Abarths, the bug eye Sprites and the Ferraris and Birdcage Maserati that showed up. As a seventh grader I read book on Car Racing by or about Juan Manuel Fangio.

Bug Eye Sprite Leading an MGA and Sunbeam Alpine

A nicely restored Fiat Abarth

Mt favorite: The Macho AC Bristol precursor to the Shelby Cobra

"THE LIMIT" revealed to me the carnage of those early F-1 days when often more than one driver was killed in a single race while many spectators were also killed. In the early 1950's Mercedes quit racing after a terrible crash at Le Mans where 82 spectators were killed and over 100 more were injured. These cars with no roll bars, no seat belts and flimsy tin bodies raced at speeds around 185MPH. Today's F-1 cars are miracles of technology with incredible down force holding them on the track, cockpits built to shield and chassis built to shed parts in a crash to dissipate energy- all to protect the driver.

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About five years ago I went to several driving schools, I do not have the driving skills of Alonso, Vettel or even the "older" Rubens Barichella. However I did enjoy a most thrilling experience which I will report in my next post!..............